


I Can Barely Breathe

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Pedro Pascal - Fandom, The Equalizer (Movies)
Genre: Consensual Sex, F/M, FUCK YOU DAVE, Porn Without Plot, Songfic, What Have I Done, or a very very flimsy plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25344205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Smutty and slightly fluffy assassins pining for each other one-shot. Loosely based on the song "Fire Meet Gasoline" by Sia.
Relationships: Dave York/Reader, Dave York/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	I Can Barely Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songsformonkeys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsformonkeys/gifts).



> He is referred to by his last name because look. DAVE IS NOT A SEXY NAME OK??? I'm sorry. I mean York isn't much better but we work with what we have.
> 
> I watched The Equalizer 2 and this is what I took away from it. Enjoy, and I'm sorry?

You adjust the wrap top of your evening dress, frowning. So much more uncomfortable than military gear, but sometimes, needs must.

“Quit fussing,” York mutters beside you.

“Easy for you to say.  _ You _ don’t have to be trussed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving,” you snark back.

York tugs at his bow tie. He looks devastating in a tux, but you would never admit it. “The sooner I get out of this monkey suit the better.”

You keep your thoughts to yourself. York looks over at you and his big brown eyes eat you up, probably seeing more than you ever mean to disclose.

“Let’s get this over with,” you sigh, sliding the doctored invites out of your evening bag. “You ready, husband?”

He offers you his arm, and you resolutely make yourself think of his two girls at home. They’ve been through their parents divorcing; they do  _ not _ need the added complication of their father getting a new girlfriend this soon.

“Shall we, Mrs Taylor?”

His voice drops half an octave as you curl your hand around his besuited forearm. Together you ascend the steps to the extravagant manor house, your mind ticking over the task at hand - sneak into the master bedroom, plant a bug, get out again without being caught. At a party this big, the chances to sneak away will be plentiful,  _ but _ , so will the security.

“What’s the itinerary again?” you hiss as you give your invites to the smiling, suited doorman. 

York accepts two champagne flutes from a waiter circling. The bubbles are tart on your tongue; tastes like Tattinger. 

“Dinner in a half hour, then speeches, then dessert, then dancing. I’m thinking we’ll make our move after the dancing gets going.”

“Not during the speeches?”

He winces. “I had access to the table plan. We’re in a place that’ll make it obvious if we try and leave.”

You sigh internally as the two of you move through the absolutely stunning, high-ceilinged ballroom. The chandelier shines down in the sympathetically-lit room, the bulbs glowing softly like candlelight, and the luminescence kisses York’s jawline and neck. He has a very biteable neck, made more evident by the stark line of the collar of his tux. Why have you never noticed this before?

You both make boring small talk with other guests. You aren’t here for them, although the beretta strapped to your thigh is a reassuring piece of insurance, should anything go awry.

As if York hears your thoughts, he rests a hand at the small of your back. “It’ll be fine.”

“Hands off the merch,” you grate out while keeping a smile pasted on your face.

York chuckles. “Is that any way to speak to your husband?”

His words sent a shiver of heat up your spine.

You  _ wish _ you weren’t attracted to him. You went to his wedding, for fuck’s sake. Watched him make heart eyes at Carol as they promised to love each other forever. The sight of him in his tux then had made you wet, too.

McCall, your team leader, had noticed, squeezing your shoulder sympathetically, telling you to move on. You agreed - and you’d nearly got married yourself, around five years ago. However your fiance trying to kill you had rather put a damper on that relationship. You killing him ended it for good.

“I wouldn’t know,” you replied through your teeth, sacchaine sweet. “I’ve never had one.”

“Something I’ll never understand,” York replies, leading you out on to the terrace. You’re waylaid twice more, once by a woman complimenting your dress, and a second time by an older man who recognises York’s photo from some fake documents circulated, touting him as a gun manufacturer. York discusses small arms convincingly for twenty minutes as you sip your champagne and pretend to be interested, when you’re bored to tears.

Finally you stand on the balcony under the stars, and draw your merino wool gold wrap around your shoulders.

“Cold, honey? You want my jacket?” York asks, and you’re about to rake him over the coals with your tongue when you realise that three other couples have come out here, and that he has to keep your cover going.

“No thanks, sweetie,” you reply.

York catches your gaze and rolls his eyes, and you bite back a smile. He always could make you laugh.

“So what’s the play?” you ask, leaning into him as if to shelter from the chilly evening air.

He rests his cheek on your hair. He smells  _ so good. _ Some enticing mix of sandalwood, bergamot and thyme that he’s always worn. You remember when he kissed your cheek on his wedding day and you breathed him in. Later, you stroked yourself to the memory of that alluring, woodsy scent, hating yourself for lusting after another woman’s husband.

“The play is that when everyone is three sheets to the wind after dinner, we sneak off separately. Meet in the bedroom. One plants the bug, the other keeps guard.”

“And if we’re caught?”

His jaw works, you feel it against your hair. “We improvise. The McCall manoeuvre.”

Your stomach drops. Famously, when McCall got into a sticky situation, he and his partner - of either sex - would pretend to have snuck away for a little tete a tete.

“Um, okay,” you agree.

York laughs softly. “Woman, you have been in situations where your entire body could have been blown to smithereens, and yet pretending to be  _ in flagrante _ with me makes you nervous?” He shakes his head. “Should I be flattered?”

“Fuck off,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in your words. “You should be so lucky.”

“I wish I was,” he murmurs, and your head jerks up, your heart fluttering  _ wildly, _ but then the dinner bell is called and you know there’ll be no chance to circle back to this conversation.

*****

Dinner takes an age, and the speeches - all about gun manufacturing and trading,  _ boredom _ city, population: you - drag on and on. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and the ladies’ one is opulent. Ostentatious. Glitter and glam everywhere; a bit over the top if you’re honest, but it’s not your house. You take a hand towel from the assistant and tip her, careful to walk so your gun isn’t obvious. You wouldn’t put it past the weapons magnate to have trained his staff to spy on the guests.

You take your time refreshing your lipstick, acting casual when your heart is beating like a drum in your chest.

You’ve done a million of these missions before. This should be your daily bread; nothing to write home about. A walk in the park; a piece of cake. But it’s the presence of  _ David _ that’s making your heart beat irregular, the cut of his suit and the soulful chocolate of his eyes that’s making you wet under the fancy, borrowed evening gown.

In the back of your mind you half hope you’ll have to pretend to have snuck away for a make-out session; but you also hope you  _ won’t _ have to. Otherwise - he might find out.

You’ve loved him secretly for a decade; what’s one more night?

You return to your seat just as the last speech is finishing up. A boring monologue. You catch the eye of another wife who looks like she might chuck herself out of a window from utter tedium, and send her a sympathetic smile.

To your surprise she doesn’t smile back but glances pointedly down at your legs.

The split in your dress is exposing the butt of your beretta.  _ Shit. _ you tuck yourself in to the table and look back at her as if to say thanks, but she is drinking and doesn’t notice.

“We may have a problem,” you murmur to Dave, pretending to kiss the spot just below his jaw as you speak.

He fake leans into your touch. “Oh yeah?”

“My dress. I told management the split was a bad idea. Good for  _ getting _ the gun, yes. Bad for being seen with it.”

Under the table, his hand slides up your leg, feeling for the custom split in the material. Your internal muscles clench at his touch; your leg trembles.

“Ah. Right here.”

His hand continues to trail up your leg.

Across from the table, the wife of some combat gear designer asks if you’d like more wine.

You nod politely.

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing,  _ David? _ ” you hiss at your fake husband.

“Testing a theory.” His hand slides a little higher, clever fingers brushing the edge of your lace panties as he agrees with something the man seated beside him says about the dessert plates.

“Fuck you,” you pant out as he fingers make contact with the seat of your underwear. You’re wet; you  _ know _ you are, and he knows it too.

“Maybe I will, if you behave,” he says mildly, as if he’s talking about the cheese, and you get  _ even _ wetter.

He curls a finger against your clit through the fabric and you squeeze your thighs together, trapping his hand. 

“That  _ is _ what you want, right, honey?” he asks, his voice like roughened velvet. 

You clench your hand into a fist on top of the table. The woman next to you makes a comment on the wine. You reply with something you can only hope is at least fifty percent coherent.

York makes the same gesture with his finger again and again. Your muscles start to contract and you can feel your face get hot. Are you really going to have an orgasm  _ here _ , in front of nearly a hundred people? Are you going to let the man you’ve fantasises about for ten years get you off like this?

Yes. Yes you are.

“Inside,” you grit out, as York exchanges pleasantries with the man opposite about the chandelier in the ballroom and what it must have cost.

He gives no sign that he has heard you, but he must have, because he pushes the lace of your underwear aside and slides his middle finger inside you, as far as he can, while keeping his thumb on your clit.

You swear you see stars.

“More?” he asks, as he lifts the wine bottle towards you with his right hand.

“Yes,” you eek out, trying to sound as if you’re not rocketing toward what will possibly be the most intense orgasm of your life.

He slides a second finger in as his thumb does something  _ fucking fantastic _ to your little bud of nerves. You’ve never been so wet.

He pours the wine like a pro. No one would ever know that he is destroying you with his other hand.

You resist the urge to fuck yourself on to his fingers.

“Enough?” York asks sweetly as he pours.

“More,” you manage to grate out.

“Sweet girl. So greedy,” he murmurs. His thumb does something that makes you grip your dessert spoon so tightly that your knuckles go white.

"Enough?" He asks again, his voice chocolate over gravel.

You sip your wine and smile widely at the woman opposite you as she says how much she is looking forward to the cheese course. "If you stop now, I will whip out this beretta and shoot you myself."

"Feisty," he purrs, so close that only you can hear, and he makes a "come hither" gesture with his fingers as his thumb presses down, and you have to cough quite loudly to disguise the sharp spear of intense pleasure as you come from York's ministrations.

"Perfection," he says as a waiter sets a cheese plate before him, but he is looking at you.

******

"Dance, honey?"

You look up as York arrives back from the bathroom and extends a hand to you. You have agreed on this, it will be less of a tell if you disappear off the dancefloor. More obvious if you leave the table. Also there's less chance of you being trapped in a conversation when you're dancing. 

York is a fine dancer, perfectly adequate, you have seen him dance with Carol at McCall's anniversary party five years ago.

"Sure," you say.

"You're so lucky,' Sherry, the woman opposite you says. "My husband never wants to dance."

"He's something, all right," you smile.

"Oooh. If looks could kill, I'd have been disembowelled by now," York whispers as he leads you on to the dancefloor and pulls you close.

"What the fucking hell was that?" you demand into his neck.

The band is playing a recent hit, a cover of  _ Fire Meet Gasoline _ by Sia. The music wraps around you as York sways you expertly, the husky voice of the lead singing stroking along your skin, giving you tiny goosebumps.  _ It’s a bad bet, certain death…. _

"How long," he says. It isn't a question.

"How long what, darling?" you ask innocently.

_ There’s two of, we’re certain with desire…. _

"How long have you thought about me fucking you. Touching you?"

"Not now," you hiss, annoyed. Ashamed. Aroused beyond belief. 

_ I can barely breathe, when you’re lovin’ me….. _

"Why not now?"

"Because, we have the small detail of a mission brief to complete," you snap.

The song reaches a crescendo and York eases you into a dip, his chocolate brown eyes meeting yours, a hundred unsaid words falling silently into the space between your bodies.

"Thirty seconds," he whispers as he holds you upright again. "Then we part ways."

And you do just that, saying, for everyone else's benefit, that you need to go to the bar.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the woman who noticed your gun watching York, a glint of curiosity stark on her face.

You reach the master bedroom without incident, but beads of sweat roll down your back between your shoulder blades. When you turn the door handle and slip inside, York is standing by the enormous bed.

He gestures to the ornate metal bed frame. "There are a few spots on the underside, where the mattress won't inhibit the sound transmission too much."

You turn away, dip into your bra for the bug. "Watch the door, will you?"

He crosses the room and stands guard as you crouch on the floor near his feet. Your body still tingles from the best orgasm you've had in years as you work. You press the feelings down.

"Someone's coming," York breathes.

"Let's hope they just need the bathroom."

You place the bug. The footsteps get closer. "Undo your trousers. Now," you order.

The door handle turns. You hear the creak.

Before York can say a word, you lunge for him, enveloping his semi-hard cock in your mouth just as the door opens, revealing the woman from the ballroom.

Her mouth drops in shock.

You pull away, smiling sheepishly, pretending to be drunk. "Sorry. This room's taken. Gotta make the most of a kid free night, y'know?"

"I thought-" her gaze scans your dress. You had time to shove the beretta in York's pooled trousers, so all she sees is a triangle of your bare thigh where the slit in the dress parts.

She snaps her mouth shut. "Disgusting." The door slams.

Fox-quick, York locks it. "If you don't finish what you started, I'll shoot you myself."

You don't think you could stop, even if you wanted to. You grip his hips and take him into your mouth again. He leans heavily on the doorframe with one arm, watching you with those honeyed bourbon eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You tongue him, learning every ridge and valley of his cock, drinking in the trickle of pre-cum that you earn from your licks and sucks.

"Jesus fucking christ," York bites off, and his hips start to move, incrementally.

You clench your inner muscles. It's been ten years since you first started to fantasise about him fucking you, and now the desperate need rears up inside you like a beast too long caged.

You take him as deep as you can, using your free hand to reach where your mouth cannot, and you feel him twitch against the side of your mouth. He cups your cheek with one hand. "Sweet girl. This is going to be over before I can enjoy it."

You slide your mouth off his dick, with some regret.

"I want you. Inside me. Now."

Those beautiful autumn-brown eyes go dark and hot. "I don't have anything."

"Were you faithful?" You ask, almost dreading the answer. "To Carol."

He holds your gaze steadily. "Yes. And got tested before we were married."

You snap upright and grab him, pulling him in for a quick , furious kiss. He tastes of red wine and the smoky edge of the paprika chicken served for dinner. "Please. Please."

With a growl low in his throat he spins you. "Hands on the bed. Put that pretty ass in the air."

Almost shaking with desire, you do as he bids.

He smoothes the skirt of your dress up and over your back, cupping your ass, then slides your soaked underwear down your legs. "This is for me, huh," he says, wonder evident in his tone.

You feel him line himself up at your entrance and he brushes the head of his cock, slippery with pre-cum, over your folds.

"David," you keen.

He slips just the swollen head inside you. You clench your muscles around him hard, hear him make that throaty growl.

"How. Long."

You shake your head, your cunt burning. 

"How. Long. Tell me. We can both get what we want."

You try and shove your hips back on him, but he is resolute, his grip iron. 

"Ten years, okay?" You sob. "Is that what you want to hear? Ten years of pretending it's you when other men fuck me. Ten years of watching you date and marry Carol, have those beautiful kids with her. Watch you two break up, and hating myself for not being sad. Ten years of wondering"-

Your words are cut off as he slides balls-deep inside you, filling you completely.

"Oh, honey," he whispers, and his voice is a caress as he reaches around to strum your clit.

Tears spill down your cheeks. "That day," you moan softly as he fucks you close to oblivion, "the day after your wedding. We all stayed over at the hotel. When you came out on to the terrace in jeans and a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, oh God. For weeks afterwards I touched myself to the thought of you fucking me against that wall with the sun kissing your back."

York slides almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, and you both groan at the tidal wave of pleasure.

"Jesus," he pants, his thrusts becoming shallower, more jittery. "Where - _fuck_ , honey, tell me where."

"On the pill," you gasp. "Inside."

He rubs quick circles on your clit and you heave in breaths, feel his cock harden to iron inside you. He grits out your name as your muscles contract hard around him, and he spills inside you in a hot rush, thrusting a few more shuddering times before he stops, curling over you, kissing your back through your dress.

The room stinks of sex, but thankfully you will be long gone before the room's occupant returns.

"David," you whisper.

He slips out of you and gently pulls your underwear back up, smoothes your dress into place.

"There."

You turn to face him, cup his cheek. "I don't want to pretend this never happened, David. If you do, well, I'll quit the team. I can't lose another decade of my life to you. I won't."

He drops his forehead to yours. "I would never ask you to. For the record, you…" he sighs. "A year ago, when we had that first assignation together - just us two, no more McCall. I was running my mouth-"

"What else is new?"

He rolls his eyes. "And you said if I didn't shut up, you'd shoot me in the balls. And from then on, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Fuck. The next assignation, when you kissed me to slip the usb drive to me? That was clever, but I got back into my car that night and I jacked off to the memory of your lips. It wasn't fair on Carol."

Your chest hurt as you gazed up into his eyes. "I think I love you. And I want to see where this goes."

He holds you close, kisses your temple. "Me too. Me, too."

You're safely out of the house, walking back to the car you'd had another agent stash in the treeline for you, when your work phone, the one only McCall's team use, buzzes.

"A text from Robert." You scan it. "Oh, shit.  Holy... _shit_."

York is on instant alert. "What is it?"

You pass him the phone.

_ Good work in there. Though I think maybe you turned the device on a little too soon?  _

_ P.S I'm happy for you, plus Susan owes me a case of beer. Take tomorrow off. -RM. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
